


howling wind, hollow moon, sweetly sing your lonesome tune

by peterstank



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix It Fic, I needed to write this, Lads Being Dads, WAS JUST, because that ending, it’s all fic from here on out lads, no, this is my attempt at adding a little more sweet to that bitter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-08 18:18:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18900046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterstank/pseuds/peterstank
Summary: Arya:At first she assumes it’s the rocking off the ship responsible for the churning of her stomach and burning throat. Arya heaves, right over the edge of the prow. Her sick is swallowed by the sea.Sansa:They call her the Red Wolf; they watch her from the shadows, though their whispers are not conspiring. They are in awe of her. In Winter Town the children squeal and sing when she comes, and Sansa is always sure to greet them. That was a lesson she had learned from a long wilted rose.Jon:The air is cold and hard to breathe so far north, but Jon does anyway. His chest is tight, it has been ever since that day, like the knife was plunged into his heart rather than hers.





	1. Chapter 1

At first she assumes it’s the rocking off the ship responsible for the churning of her stomach and burning throat. Arya heaves, right over the edge of the prow. Her sick is swallowed by the sea. 

Her hand falls to her stomach.

 

* * *

 

The weight of the crown is heavy upon her head, though not as heavy as some. Sansa wearily dons it come the morn and removes it with reverence as the sun sets. 

They call her the Red Wolf; they watch her from the shadows, though their whispers are not conspiring. They are in awe of her. In Winter Town the children squeal and sing when she comes, and Sansa is always sure to greet them. That was a lesson she had learned from a long wilted rose.

The people love her, but she didn’t make them. They just do.

 

* * *

 

 

The air is cold and hard to breathe so far north, but Jon does anyway. His chest is tight, it has been ever since that day, like the knife was plunged into his heart rather than hers.

He can still remember it, the soft tone of her voice, the light in her eyes. She had believed, truly, that she was good. He had too. There is a part of him even now that does not understand. 

He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand, really.

 

* * *

 

They’re born during a storm, one of the worst since they set sail. Wind rocks the ship so hard it feels like it might keel over, but Estra assures her it won’t. She feels mad, mumbling deliriously about checking the bilge for water. No one listens. She screams in both frustration and pain as her insides are torn apart.

Then there’s a babe in her arms, red faced and squalling, reaching toward her with curled fingers. Arya stares down at it, panting, and feels close to nothing. 

She knows she’ll protect it, but it feels strange and hard to love. 

There comes another pain, harsher and she gasps through it. “Something is wrong—”

“There’s another one, my lady,” says Myra. “Another babe.”

 

* * *

 

In the bleakest hours, when she is most lonely, Sansa creeps down into the crypts. Their depths are dark and dank and at first it had been a hard place to visit, for all she could remember were the dying screams of the women and children she could not save. Her hand always burns down here, remembering the kiss Tyrion had planted against her knuckles.

It had been too warm a touch for a place so cold.

Sansa stares up at the granite face of her father. It is not long enough, and his shoulders are not as broad. She imagines it is close to what he must have looked like at her age—he had been alone then, too; his sister and brothers and father all gone, with a stranger for a wife and two newborn sons.

A newborn son and a nephew, she amends, but it feels wrong.

Jon has not written. He has not visited. No one can stop him from it and she is sure she will not die before he returns one day. These lands are hers, under her domain, and she promises herself the minute she sees him once more she will pardon him for all of his crimes and offer him a holdfast to keep.

 

* * *

 

Ghost lumbers through the snows, chasing after the children. They scream in good nature, they know well enough by now that he will not harm them.

Tormund sidles up to Jon and passes him a bowl of steaming broth. “Betha made it.”

“So it’s inedible,” Jon surmises with a slight smile, but brings the bowl to his lips and sups from it regardless. There is little flavour, only fat and water, but it’ll do for now.

Tormund eyes him. “You gonna keep wearing that cloak and pretending you’re still a crow, then?”

Jon rolls his eyes. “I’ll always be a crow.”

“Aye, you’re my Little Crow,” he agrees with a fond sort of chuckle, “but we both know why you’re here. I could lead my people back well enough. Might as well put on a sheepskin like the rest of us.”

Jon taps the rim of the empty bowl. _Sheep follow,_ he thinks. _Crows lead._

 

* * *

 

She names the first one Lyarra, after the grandmother she never met. The child has the north in her, the wolfsblood. From six moons on she’s babbling and crawling and grabbing at everything she can, pulling hairs and screaming until she’s blue in the face.

Cass isn’t the same. They’re as different as night and day. Where Lyarra is loud, Cass is silent, stoic. Her hair is darker, her eyes are blue. She is her father’s daughter.

Arya isn’t sure about them. In a way, they are easy to care for. Whenever she holds them they always stop crying, and from there they are content to simply be warm in her arms. Still it’s not often she does, at least not at first. She leaves most of it to Meryle and Myra, the oldest and youngest women aboard. Myra has no children and no husband, while Meryle’s died in the slaughter of King’s Landing, and all her sons too.

They take to the task. They watch the girls when Arya can’t.

(won’t)

 

* * *

 

Sansa sorts through the ledgers, making meticulous notes in a careful hand. Over her shoulder hovers Maester Wolkan, who adds his thoughts here and there but is otherwise silent.

“Your Grace,” he says, once they have nearly finished for the day and the hearth is burning low, leaving only embers to see by. “Have you given the matter of marriage any consideration?”

Sansa stiffens. This is not the first time the topic has arisen, but she hates to even think of such things. It is all she can do but push the thoughts of his hands on her from her mind, pale and cold and clammy, bruising and cutting and twisting.

“No,” Sansa says curtly. “That will be all, Maester Wolkan.”

The old man ducks his head, but upon the threshold of the door he stops. “Your Grace—”

How strange that is, even now after these two years have passed. She still has not settled under the heavy cloak of her nobility, though so few could ever know that. She wears a sweet smile for the people and listens to their every complaint, taking it all in stride. She is her father’s daughter, the north’s child, the last wolf.

“Please,” she says to him, smiling now though it is not a sweet one, only desperate. “Some other time.”

Again he nods. There will be another time, she knows. She is now firmly into her twenties, there are only so many years she will have to bear children and the north needs an heir. 

Wearily Sansa sags in her chair as he leaves. She pinches her brow and wishes, not for the first time, that mother were here to guide her.

 

* * *

 

There is blood, crimson and hot against his palms. All around him there is heat, a dragon’s breath, a dragon’s roar, a dragon’s fire and blood. 

In his dreams she always speaks, in a broken voice, tears on her cheeks and scarlet dripping from her rosy lips. “You betrayed me,” she says. “I trusted you. I loved you.”

Jon always wakes up drenched in sweat, despite the chill of winter. He shivers in the dark and waits for his heart to beat as normal.

This time he is not alone. Val is in the tent, her hair is silver-white in the moonlight, her mouth is parted and her arm is around his waist. Jon stares down at her and feels sick.

Sick for taking her when all he wanted was warmth and to forget, sick for letting her believe there could be anything between them, sick for looking at her and wishing she were another.

He slips from her grasp and exits the tent. She doesn’t follow, doesn’t even stir. Dany could always tell when he was rousing. Oftentimes he would open his eyes and find that she was already watching him, her hand tracing the ever-gaping wound on his chest. His moon-scar, she’d called it once. He’d laughed and said it was just like her to make poetry out of tragedy.

The Free Folk are not yet woken. The sky is lit by a thousand stars, silver against their indigo home. Not for the first time does he look up and see clouds in the shapes of dragons.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

No one hears him. 

 

* * *

 

“I hate them,” Lyarra proclaims loudly, scooting down even lower in her chair. She pouts up at Arya, who closes her eyes for a moment of merciful darkness before facing her daughter once more. 

How strange it is, to have a daughter.

“You’ve got to eat,” she says. “They’re not bad, really. Cass likes them, don’t you?”

Cass shrugs. “They’re alright.”

Lyarra stares down at the oysters on her plate and looks green. “They’re slimy.”

“You’ll be slimy too after I chuck you out at sea when you don’t eat,” Arya says. 

Lyarra only rolls her eyes. She’s used to this, and doesn’t find it threatening at all. Arya thinks of her father in moments such as this one and wonders how in the seven hells he ever managed to raise her to eleven without falling dead or ill.

“Can’t I have something else?”

Arya sighs. “There’s soup on deck, I’m sure. Fetch yourself some bread, too.”

Lyarra rushes off with a grin, her hair a wave of umber plaits. Cass rolls her eyes. “She’s spoiled.”

“Is not.”

“Is so,” Cass says stubbornly. She is the younger of them but she is steady, unyielding, her eyes darken when she is angry like storm clouds. “You always let her get away with silly things.”

“Not important things.”

Cass quietens because it’s true. Arya punishes them plenty when they’ve truly misbehaved, as her father did for her. No archery, extra reading lessons, time alone in their cabins. It’s a balance she finds exhausting.

“Will we ever meet our father?”

It’s only years of training that keep her spoon in hand. She freezes and turns her gaze slowly to Cassandra, who’s face is perfectly innocent but her eyes give away the lie: she is pleased to have caused such a reaction, she knows she’s hit a sore spot, and has successfully done such a rare thing as catching Arya off guard.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Cass says. “Father. When can we meet him? You never talk about him.”

Arya blinks. “He was a smith.”

Cass’s eyes gleam. She sits up in her chair, kneels on it actually. “A smith? For true? Did he make your sword?”

“No, that was Mikken,” Arya says. She doesn’t have to explain who it is. Cass and Lyarra know all about Winterfell, about father and mother and Robb and Luwin and Harwin and Hullen, and all the rest of them. 

“What about Nightsbane? Did he make that?”

“No,” Arya says. “It’s very old, I don’t know who made it.”

“Can I hold it?”

Arya hardly considers it. She pulls the catspaw dagger from its sheath and hands it over, keeping a careful eye on Cass as she flips it ungracefully in her grip. She’s only six, there’s still time to learn.

Cass doesn’t cut herself. She stares at the rippling edge of the blade. “Is he dead?”

Arya forgets about eating. It’s pointless, anyways. “Not that I know of. He’s a lord now, and probably married to a lady. I expect they have other children together.”

If Cass notices the way her voice wavers and then tightens, she doesn’t mention it. She gives Nightsbane another twist and then hands it back. “I’d like to meet him.”

Arya can’t help it. She softens a bit, gingerly taking the knife, feeling warm when their fingers touch. “I’m sure he’d like to meet you too,” she says quietly, and reaches out to tuck a rebel curl from Cass’s face. “Maybe someday.”

Cass takes it for all that it is.

 

* * *

 

Tyrion stares at her from across the desk.

“So you’re going to the Wall,” she says.

He cradles his goblet of summerwine close to his chest. “To piss off the edge of the world, yes.”

“If you think you’ll find Jon there, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

This perks his interest. “Oh?”

Sansa nods and pretends that they don’t affect her, the words that come pouring from her mouth. She pretends her heart isn’t cracking into icy fragments. “He’s sent no word. The men I have sent to the Wall to check on his status report that he... isn’t there. Hasn’t been for some time.”

“And you neglected to inform His Grace of this development because....?”

“Because if Bran wants to know where Jon is, he can warg into a bloody bird and find out himself,” Sansa says, with far more heat than she intends. Tyrion stares and her shoulders slump, feeling foolish. “I’m sorry. It’s been a very long day. I’m sure you’re eager to rest before you resume your journey north.”

“Yes,” Tyrion says, somewhat tightly. “I thank you for your hospitality, Your Grace.”

Sansa smiles at him. “There’s no need for that, Tyrion. It’s just Sansa.”

 

* * *

 

“Ah, look at that. I think they might be in love.”

Jon follows Tormund’s gaze and finds them, two children running around in the snow. Tormund’s son is laughing, red in the face.

Jon’s daughter shoves him and yells, calls him stupid. It makes him smile.

“I wouldn’t be too sure.”

It’s been four years since Val died, screaming and covered in sweat as she brought their daughter into the world. He hadn’t expected it, hadn’t wanted it, but the minute Aryanna was placed in his arms he knew. He’d never loved anyone as much as he loved her, he’d die for her a thousand times over if need be.

All crows are liars, Old Nan had said to him once. Another vow broken, but he can’t find it in him to really feel sorry. 

“She’s a feisty one,” Tormund says with a fond grin. “She’s giving my boy a rough time of it, don’t you think?”

Little Mance is kissed by fire. He isn’t Tormund’s first child, and surely won’t be the last, but he’s every bit as wild and brash as his father. It terrifies Jon to think of Aryanna ever being stolen by him.

“She gives him what he asks for,” Jon says, and turns back to the elk they’ve been skinning. Its pelt will make for a nice blanket. It’s the first one they’ve been in a very long time, and more are sure to follow as the winter becomes less harsh at last.

Tormund only laughs. Jon glances over his shoulder once more and watches as Aryanna hovers over Mance, pointing and cackling. She’s got the wolf’s blood in her. Even her laugh is like Robb’s.

He can only hope she stays a wolf, with blood that cools instead of boiling.

 

* * *

 

Another roll of thunder as they pull up to the harbour. Eight years of exploring, six islands found and charted, and for the first time in forever and a half her feet touch Westerosi soil. 

The ground is wet. It’s muddy all the way up to the castle. Arya is soaked to the bone but doesn’t complain, and neither does Cass. Lyarra takes to the horse’s reins like she was born for them and gallops in circles around them, laughing all the way. 

“Remember what I said?”

Lyarra sighs heavily. “I’ve got to be like a cat,” she mumbles. “Quiet as a shadow.”

Arya nods, satisfied, and Lyarra quietens. She slumps glumly in her saddle for a moment before perking up, and it’s only as they round the bend that Arya realises why.

She’s spotted a flag, a black stag against golden threads. The sigil of her father’s house.

“Stay with Meryle,” Arya tells them suddenly, throwing her whole stupid plan away. “Go to the kitchens, say you’re scullions.”

Lyarra immediately protests. Cass eyes her. “We can’t meet him?”

“You will,” Arya assures them. “I’ll call for you. It might be awhile.”

Cass nods and jerks her horse away from the path they’d taken, riding ahead to rejoin the ship’s crew. Lyarra hesitates. “Mother?”

“Aye, little wolf?”

“Do you... do you think he’ll like us?”

Arya hadn’t expected that. She keeps her face smooth, however; calm as still water. Fear cuts deeper than swords. She remembers, even after all this time. She remembers her lessons.

“He’ll love you,” she promises, because it’s true. She thinks he’s always loved them even if he doesn’t know they exist. There’s a part of him inside them, a part that’s warm and sweet and kind, a part that could never come from Arya’s cold black heart.

Lyarra is pleased enough and goes to join her sister. Arya ducks off the path and into the woods, slipping from shadow to shadow. She makes it to the gates and creeping past the guard is easy enough. He’s half-drunk already. Arya rolls her eyes at the sight.

Lightning cracks the sky into fragments, grey clouds roll, and Arya slinks through stone halls, ducking into servant passages when need be. It’s easy work, child’s play. She figures even Cass and Lya could do it.

His room must be the one at the end of a topmost hall. There are two doors instead of one, polished oak with carvings of stags... and wolves, too. Snarling and tearing through the forest. Arya runs her fingers over them, lips parted, her heart stuttering in her chest.

Inside it’s simple, fine furs and a grand bed, and empty. Dark. The curtains are drawn, the hearth is large but the flames are dying. Arya stokes it and scans, looking for any sign that a woman lives here, belongs in his space. Her mother had ordered a vanity be brought into the chambers she shared with father, and there isn’t one here. But then Arya remembers that not all lords and ladies share chambers. 

Still, she’s a friend, too. Family before anything else.

Even if she can still remember the way his kisses had burned her body, seared her skin, branded her breasts. She can still remember the fire inside him that wrapped around her and consumed her, if only for a moment.

Arya settles into the chair behind the desk. It faces the bed, away from the hearth. She will see him but he won’t see her, not until she wants him too.

It’s a good twenty minutes before he enters. First comes the sound of his footfalls, boots heavy against the stone floor, he is dragging himself along. Tired, worn down, he won’t notice her. 

The door opens. It creaks, in dire need of oiling. Arya idly cuts another piece of the apple she’d been working at as he goes about his business; removing his wet cloak, peeling off his gloves—

“Took you long enough.”


	2. Chapter 2

His body tenses and he turns. In the firelight his face is half lit, enveloped in an orange glow. He’s changed, grown a beard, let his hair grow out. Arya likes that. She always liked his hair best when it was long.

It takes him a few seconds to place her, shrouded in shadow as she is. Gendry takes a step forward, slow and cautious like so as not to startle her, like she’s prey and he is the predator and not the other way round.

“Arya?”

Just the way he says her name is enough to get her heart to still. She hadn’t realised how loudly it had been thumping until then, and it makes her cheeks flush. Like an idiot little girl, like _Sansa_.

She crafts her movements idle and returns her attention to the knife and fruit in hand. Arya takes a bite, gathering herself while he gapes like a stupid. 

“Arya,” he says again, this time far more impatient.

“Yes, it’s me,” she returns, meeting his gaze. Blue, electric, churning and alive. The storm inside of him. “I’m well, thanks for asking. And you, my lord?”

Gendry blinks. He shakes his head like to clear it. “No one’s seen or heard from you in years, and you show up here in the middle of the night like—like it’s _nothing_ at all, like you haven’t been gone for—”

“Oh, do shut up.”

“Excuse me?”

Arya crooks a brow. “Has being a lord gotten to your head so quickly? Not used to such tones from others?”

It’s his turn to blush, but she can barely see it beneath his beard. It makes him look older, more regal. He holds himself with more dignity too. He’s not like to go running from her these days, she figures. The weight of Storm’s End has been shouldered by him, but he wears it with pride and strength. That’s good.

“I don’t... Seven Hells, Arya.”

Gendry shakes his head and moves past her, going to warm his hands by the fire. “Why are you here?”

It’s a quiet question, cast out into the space between them in a tone laced with plea and desperation, hidden hope and regret most of all. Arya gingerly lays her items down on the desk and regards him, standing sideface, broad and older and no less pleasing to the eye.

“I missed you.”

He looks to her, just for a moment, before settling his stare on the flames once more. “That can’t be the only reason.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know!” Just like that he explodes, a burst of white-hot anger and a maddened gleam of hurt. Arya doesn’t even flinch. “Gods, you’ve been gone so bloody long, I figured you’d _died!_ You could’ve at least written!”

“From sea?” She deadpans.

His eyes roll. “From wherever. You can’t tell me you’ve not visited a port to re-stock or trade at least once.”

 _Many times,_ she thinks. No answer comes for him. Arya tilts her head, admiring the way the fireglow frames him, and raps her fingers along the arm of the chair. “You’re right, it’s not the only reason I’ve come.”

Gendry favours her with a tired look, almost sheepish, edging with exasperation. Three minutes and they have already settled back into the way things once were, and yet there are leagues between them still. 

Arya missed him. _Misses_ him. All at once it chokes her throat and burns her eyes and she reaches her hand out, waiting, begging without words.

He touches her and the whole world rightens. His hand in hers, rough and calloused and worn, is the weight she always needed, the anchor that will keep her bound now. Gendry lets her pull him closer, and then he kneels before her, sidling up between her legs.

Arya presses her brow to his own. Tears spill over, brazen and salty, tingling her skin. She cups his face as he clutches her, his palms against her hips and waist, gripping her through her leathers. “Gods, I missed you,” she whispers, soft because she cannot hide her heart from him, she never could.

Gendry kisses her with all that fervent passion she’d never been able to forget, a lingering blaze igniting in her belly as her fingers card through his hair, as he moans against her lips. It lasts a lifetime and a half, and it’s not long enough at that.

Still she goes numb, her mouth falling still, the feeling fading to memory as the shame takes hold. She can’t do this, not when he doesn’t know.

“Arry?” he asks, low and worried and sweet. She wants to cry, it’s enough to break her.

 _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ Arya places her hands on his cheeks, her thumb brushing away fallen tears. He’s crying, because he loves her, or _loved_ in the very least. Arya wishes she could pull him close and hold him forever, but she doesn’t.

She leans away. The space between them is heavy with their unspoken truths. Arya holds his hands in her own, staring down at them to gather her strength—

“Mother?”

 

* * *

 

Sansa finds him in the library, of course. He is tucked away in a darkened corner with a heavy tome open before him, eyes drooping as they trace the words.

“What are you reading?”

Tyrion looks up. His smile is weary, almost troublesome. “A Song of Ice and Fire,” he says. “I am taking notes for amendments.”

“So that it will include all of your victories, I’m sure,” Sansa teases.

“Of which there are many,” Tyrion agrees, though his haughty tone will never fool her. They were married once, after all. Her sweet songs and stories had always been obvious to him, and from her he cannot hide the toll the weight of six kingdoms has taken on him. _Punishment indeed_ , she thinks.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she says quietly, sitting down across from him, “but it is very late. I was growing worried.”

Tyrion lays his hands flat on the pages of the book. The edges are gilded and gleaming, flashing with the flame of the lantern she laid upon the table. “It is impossible for a queen to disturb,” he says. “We lowly folk are the disruptions, I should think.”

“Low because of your stature or status?” Sansa asks, almost without thinking. A strike of shame courses through her as she fears she will cause him offense but he only laughs.

“Both, in my case. But what about you? What business does the queen in the north have wandering about the stacks during the hour of the wolf?”

“I’m always awake at this hour,” Sansa says. “I wanted to... I was going to visit the crypts. I thought I might invite you.”

Tyrion stares. “Oh?”

The pause between them is tense, wrapped up in their own unpleasant memories as they are. Then he moves, closing his heavy book with a thud that resonates through the chamber. His hand grasps for the lantern as he rounds the table.

Sansa blinks. “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” he says, softly, and then with a wicked grin: “what better time to face our demons, my queen?”

She isn’t his queen, or his wife, or his lady. But Sansa takes his proffered hand anyway and together they make the descent into the darkened hall of her ancestors.

 

* * *

 

There’s a body squirming beside him, small, wriggling up beneath the fur down that covers them both. Aryanna’s head emerges, her hair mussed, grinning. “You’ve been asleep too long,” she announces.

“I have not,” Jon bemoans. He rolls over to escape her, but then little hands are pressing against his face, as cold as ice. “Seven Hells, Ary.”

Aryanna giggles. She pinches his nose. “Get up! You’re going to teach me how to use a bow today!”

“Who said?”

“You said!” Aryanna pushes him and then stills, her head cocked in confusion. “Why do you say Seven Hells if there’s only one?”

 _There are no Hells or Heavens,_ he thinks, but doesn’t say that. Instead he turns to her, reaching up to cradle the back of her head as he used to with Arya when he was about to impart upon her some wisdom or the other. “Never you mind yourself with that,” he says. “Go wash up.”

Her nose wrinkles. “Meg always tells me to go away. Says I get up too early and the water’s not hot yet.”

“You think she’s lying?”

“I think she’s slow,” Aryanna says. “I could do it quick if you taught me.”

“You’ll burn yourself,” Jon tells her. “Some other time, when you’re older.”

“I’m four!”

“That’s four years too young.”

She huffs and rolls off of him, a bundle of furs, and stumbles over to the flaps. At the last minute she looks back, and for all the world she is his sister reborn, she is the mother he never knew, there is not an ounce of Val in this girl. She is the north through and through. 

“Father?”

“Aye?”

Aryanna runs to him, stumbling right into his arms. Jon holds her and can’t help smiling, though it hurts at times. She presses a kiss to his cheek and then she is gone, a flurry of snow and wind.

Jon settles back against the cot and closes his eyes. Not for the first time, he imagines her there, sprawled beside him and tucked away safe. The woman he had loved, the woman he had lost.

 _You know nothing,_ she’d say.

 

* * *

 

There is a little girl standing in his doorway. She stares with wide grey eyes at Arya, and then at him. A small thing, skinny and soaked from the rain, loose hairs damp and curling around her pale face. 

He knows at once. She doesn’t have to say it.

“I told you to stay in the kitchens,” Arya reprimands, ripping away from him and rounding the desk.

The girl shrugs. “I didn’t feel like waiting,” she announces, not at all bothered by Arya, her _mother_. She leans to the side to catch a glimpse of Gendry. “Is that him?”

“Lyarra,” Arya says, tired and reprimanding, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. “This isn’t the best time—”

 _Lyarra_ , he thinks. It’s a northern name. This girl is northern to the bone, but there is something in the way she holds herself, something in the way she speaks and moves, that reminds him startlingly of himself. She can’t be more than eight, and with a tight chest and shaking hands he is sure, more certain of it than he has ever been of anything.

This girl is _his_.

“If you could just wait outside—”

“No,” Gendry says. His voice is a rasping wind. Arya turns to look at him with pained eyes but he can’t look back, he can’t look at her. He can’t look at anyone but Lyarra.

Gendry stands. Even as he moves, he keeps her in his sights. She is glancing between the both of them, half anxious and half excited he thinks.

“This is... this is why you came back then?”

Arya takes a step forward and Gendry freezes. She notices, of course. There is nothing she misses. “Yes.”

“You... you kept my daughter from me for eight years?”

Saying it aloud, tossing the words into the air, it terrifies him. He prays he’s made a mistake, there’s been a misunderstanding, she is not his. Then the guilt that’s already hammering his heart to pieces doesn’t belong, and the anger that’s boiling his blood can cool.

But Arya says, “Yes.”

Gendry finally looks at her. She’s not crying, she’s not afraid, not to anyone with eyes that aren’t keen to her. He sees how pale she is, the way she trembles just a little, her hand falling to rest upon Needle’s hilt.

“And _why the fuck_ would you do something like that?!”

Neither of them flinch. Arya does close her eyes, though. She is worn down and older, they are both. It’s not an excuse.

“What else was I supposed to do then, Gendry? Drop them on your doorstep and leave again?”

(all he can see is the little girl between them, the way her eyes light up and she mouths his name, _gendry_ , and it makes him so furious he could scream)

“Yes! Yes, you should have!”

“ _No_ ,” she says, heated and fiery and advancing upon them. “Protecting them is all that matters to me. Keeping them safe. That’s what I’ve done and that’s what I’ll do until the day I die.”

Gendry stares. It finally catches. “Them?”

Arya swallows. “There’s two.”

His hands fly to cover his face, scrubbing down his cheeks. He falls with the hurtle of this truth, landing heavily upon the chest at the end of his bed. “Fucking hell, Arya.”

“You’re mad,” says a small voice. He looks up and there she is, approaching him slowly. “You don’t... you don’t want us?”

It breaks him, breaks his heart. Gendry can only shake his head and reach for her. “That’s not what I mean,” he says quickly, quietly for her.

Lyarra looks to Arya, questioning. He hates that. Arya must give some nod of approval because then she’s in his arms, a tiny little thing in dirty leathers and a muddy cloak, his daughter. Gendry holds her and tries his hardest not to shatter into a thousand pieces.

“I’m not mad at you,” he whispers, cradling her head. Her nose is pressed against the crook of his neck. She’s shaking. He didn’t know you could love someone so much you just met, but he does. He’d die for her a thousand times over. “I just wish I’d met you sooner, that’s all.”

Lyarra pulls away. Her eyes are rimmed with red and she wipes her tears away angrily. It makes him smile. “I did, too.”

Gendry nods. He reaches up to brush her cheeks dry. She’s real, here and with him. Her hands catch his own and she stares down at them, little fingers roving over every nick and scar. “Mummy said you were a smith.”

“For a long time,” he agrees.

“But you’re a lord, now.”

“Aye,” he says. Her fingers trace the lines of one of his palms. Her other hand Gendry holds and brings to his lips to kiss. 

“Can you teach me?”

The question startled him. He blinks. “How to work in a smithy?”

Lyarra nods. Gendry laughs, because of course she wants to know, of course she would ask. “Aye, I’ll teach you.”

Her smile is blinding, a happy beam, the first rays of sunshine after a week long storm. Just like that all of his misery is gone, all of his loneliness. He’s wandered these halls and roamed with his people for near on a decade and none of it did anything to fill the void inside him, but just like that it’s gone. 

Lyarra hugs him this time, throwing her arms round his neck. Gendry holds her and breathes in her sea water scent.

Then Arya is kneeling down. There are tear tracks on her cheeks. She reaches for Lyarra, first touching her gently, warming his heart at the sight. “Lya, go and fetch Cass, will you?”

Lya draws away. She doesn’t have to wipe her face this time. Gendry does that for her. This time she looks to him for approval and he nods. “Go on.”

He trusts that the castle will be safe for her, trusts his men with his own life, but still it hurts to watch her scurry out.

“I expect you’ll want to yell at me some more,” Arya says quietly.

She’s sat on the floor with her hands on her knees as if bracing herself. Gendry can’t. With trembling fingers he reaches out to stroke her cheek. “Not tonight, love.”

Arya looks up at him, and then clutches his hand. She nods, bringing his knuckles to her lips to kiss. “I’m so sorry.”

He wants to be angry, he is angry, but he can’t grasp it just now. All he can think of is Cass, the other daughter who is a stranger to him, the one he adores already.

“Just promise me you’ll stay?”

Arya’s grip tightens. “I promise.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was alright (though of course there’s still more to come). Lmk!


	3. Chapter 3

It’s a big castle. There’s lots of people, but they don’t walk about like on the ship. Mostly they stay in the shadows, slinking through passages like snakes. There are rooms just for them and Lyarra stares in wonder, watching as they shuffle through their tasks all together.

They know where they’re going, what they’re doing. They shout to one another in accents like her own, not with the melodies of the Braavosi or the halting brogue of the far west. The people there are strange and scarce. 

There’s a plump woman washing clothes, humming to herself as she works. Lyarra walks to her. “Excuse me, have you seen a girl that looks like me?”

The woman stops and squints. “I see you,” she says.

“Not me, another girl. My sister, Cass.”

“’fraid not, little lass. There’s lots of girls run through here like you, besides. Best ask someone with better eyes.”

Lyarra blinks. “There’s something wrong with yours?”

The woman chuckles, even if most would be like to call Lya rude for asking. “Aye, I’m blinder than a newborn foal. Ask Serena, she might now.”

Lyarra nods, sorry the woman can’t see but in more of a hurry to find her sister. She goes to where the woman pointed, wondering how she’s so sure it’s Serena if she can’t make sights that far, but tugs at the other woman’s wash robe anyways. “Excuse me, have you seen a girl like me? She might call herself Cass, or Sandra.”

Serena shakes her head. She has ruddy cheeks and drooping eyes but looks kind enough. “Sorry, love. Fetch me that bin, will you?”

Lya does. “She might have come through here,” she presses. “Her hair is darker than mine. Are you sure?”

“Ask Blind Betha.”

“But I already—”

“Girl!” A man shouts, from behind. He is tall and thin and oily, with wrinkled hands, palms black from dyeing. “Scram!”

“But I’m only—”

“Best listen to Tom,” Serena advises. “He don’t like children.”

“I’m _not_ a child.”

Serena laughs. “Aye, and I’m not eight moons along with one,” she says. “Get off with you, love. Find your papa and ask him for help.”

Lyarra frowns. She only just met her papa, and he’s not called that anyways, he’s called _Gendry_ or _My Lord_. At least, she thinks so. Most girls call their fathers papa, though, and she wonders if hers would mind.

Thin Tom yells at her again and this time chucks an empty wicker basket. Lyarra dodges with ease but runs out anyways. The people here are just like everywhere else, she thinks; good and bad. Thin Tom might be nice to Serena and Blind Betha, but not to children. She decides if she ever sees him again, she’ll give him another chance.

Even so she doesn’t know where Cass has gone, and she doesn’t know these halls. Feeling cold, she goes back the way she came.

 

* * *

 

“I can’t find her.”

Arya freezes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean she’s not in the kitchens, or in the washroom, or in any of the halls from here to there.” Lyarra shrugs. “I don’t know where she’s gone.”

It shouldn’t be terrifying, but it is. All at once her heart is racing and her palms are sweaty. She wipes them on her breeches and stands, shakily, turning to Gendry.

He’s staring at Lya. When he feels the weight of Arya’s gaze, he blinks, comes back to himself. “Right,” is all he says. Then he gets up and goes to the door, calling for a guard. One comes not long after. “Send out thirty of your best men. I need you to find a girl of eight, named Cass. She...” Gendry stops. “Arya, what does she look like?”

Arya swallows. Her stomach feels funny. “Like you.”

It’s a moment before he looks away. “Black hair, blue eyes,” he tells the guard. “Go now, I’ll be along to help look.”

The guard nods and mutters something in reply. His boots are heavy upon the stone floors as he retreats, in time with her heart beat. “I’m coming with you,” she blurts. Gendry starts to argue but she ignores him, kneeling in front of Lya. “Stay here, do you hear me? I don’t need to lose the both of you in one go.”

Lyarra rolls her eyes but nods. On impulse, Arya presses a quick kiss to her brow. Lya’s nose wrinkles up. She doesn’t argue and that should be reassuring, but it’s not. At least, not with Lya.

Gendry has donned his cloak. He grabs her arm by the door, his grip loosening with the glare she shoots him. “Arya,” he whispers, “someone should stay—”

“Shut up,” Arya says, and slips past him into the night. 

 

* * *

 

They’re standing round the fire when he hears the scream. Jon is busy skinning a coney, mindless of the blood dirtying his fingers and staining the snow below, listening to Old Nig ramble on about the time she fucked a giant. 

“You didn’t fuck a giant,” Tormund says. “A giant fucked _you_.”

The men and women gathered laugh while Old Nig scowls, standing like she means to fight him. Jon only rolls his eyes. It wouldn’t surprise him in the least if she won, even a woman so frail and thin as her. She has fire.

It’s amidst their ringing din that his ears perk and then the coney is tossed aside, the knife is still in hand, and he is running toward the edge of the woods.

There is a steep slope covered in snow, thickets bursting through the blanket of white to poke and scratch at his legs above his furs. Jon doesn’t think, he hardly breathes; his heart is pounding against his chest so loudly an army could march to it, _left right left right left right—_

Blood, more blood in the snow, crimson red, smeared in wide arcs. Her name is on his lips ready to rip through the air but then he sees her, a small bundle of brown, whimpering and clutching at her leg. 

“Aryanna!”

She looks up, cheeks scarlet and stained with silver tears, lip between her teeth, _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_ tumbling out clumsy into the space between them that closes as he kneels down before her. Jon cradles the back of her head and pulls her to him, careful not to jostle her too much lest he hurt her more.

But there is no blood. There is a broken bow in her hand and her ankle is twisted the wrong way but she’s not bleeding. He doesn’t understand—

“It was a wolf, and I was—I though I could—but I only hurt it and then I fell and—”

She’s sobbing through it all but Jon can only sit back as the relief courses through him, leaving him heavy and worn. “Seven Hells,” he whispers.

Aryanna only cries harder at that. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you,” she says, and then whimpers. “It hurts, papa.”

Jon wants to scream, but she is only four, a wild little thing with a heart of flame, too much for him alone but he will do the best he can. Jon shakes his head, pressing his cold lips to her cold skin, feeling hollow and alone. “It’s alright, love. We’ll take you to Pryne and she’ll fix you right up.”

“I’m sorry,” she says again, clutching at him with a tiny hand. “I’m so stupid, I—”

“You’re not stupid,” Jon cuts in sharply. She hiccups to a halt and he rises, slowly, carefully, holding her to him. “You can’t go off alone, Ary, but you’re not stupid. Promise you’ll stay close to me?”

She nods, curling against him, a nose carved of ice pressed against his pulse. “I promise.”

Tormund and Megga are standing near but out of earshot, weapons still drawn though hanging limp at their sides. “Just her?”

“There’s an injured wolf somewhere nearby,” Jon tells them, proud despite himself; she’s four years old and came damn close to a first kill already. “Find it and we’ll have it for supper.”

Tormund nods. He eyes Aryanna. “She good?”

Jon stares down at her, with her little face scrunched up in pain. “She’ll be alright,” he says. It is a vow, one he will never let break as long as he draws breath.

 

* * *

 

There is a girl of eight standing in the middle of an aperture carved from stone, her hands roaming over the granite leaves. She looks like him. 

Gendry had searched for an hour before he found her, tucked out of the way in a cavernous room he so rarely visited, watching with wide blue eyes as the waves crashed against the walls of the castle hundreds of feet below.

For a long time he simply stares at her, taking in every shift and twitch. There are things she does, little echoes of Arya in her; the way she tugs her lip between her teeth, the way she scrunches up her face as a particularly baffling thought crosses her mind. And him, he’s there too: in her squared shoulders and locked jaw, in her wringing hands and planted feet.

“You ought to be careful,” he says at last. The words cause her to start. She whirls around, knuckles white along the edge of the sill. “You could fall.”

In an instant she composes herself. It’s a learned behaviour, he knows. If it were him, he would have stammered and blushed. At least, a while ago he would have. And Arya would have rolled her eyes—the small Arya, Arry really. The girl he never forgot, whose pleas were branded onto the walls of his heart. Her desperation weighs him down even now, lead heavy in his stomach. 

“I won’t fall,” Cass argues. “Yozen says I have perfect balance.”

Gendry steps into the room. “And who is Yozen?”

“He’s... well, he was a ship’s hand, but now he teaches me how to fight.”

“Oh?” She’s learning to fight, and he’s not sure whether to be proud or exasperated. “Do you think you could beat me, then?”

Cass sizes him up. “I bet, but you’re a lord, aren’t you? Mother said we’re not supposed to get into fights with high lords or ladies.”

Gendry nods. “I’m a lord, aye.”

“Lord of a holdfast? Or a whole castle?” She eyes him with interest. “Are you from here or somewhere else?”

“I’m from here,” Gendry tells her. “I’m lord of _this_ whole castle.”

He sees the recognition light her eyes and the fear that comes soon after. Cass shifts her feet and walks away from the window, circling around him like hunting prey. “Are you married?”

“No.”

“Do you have children?”

“Aye,” he says. “Two.”

Her shoulders sag with disappointment. “Oh. Are they small?”

Gendry can’t help smiling. “Small,” he agrees. “Skinny. Stubborn as all the Seven Hells, it would seem.”

Cass cocks her head. “You don’t know them well, then? But don’t they live with you?”

“No. They were...” he kneels down in front of her, shaking his head. “They were far away for a long time. I’ve only just met the oldest, and the younger—well, I can’t seem to find her. She’s about your height, looks just like me. Her name is Cass. I don’t suppose you’ve seen her?”

She understands and her lip trembles. Cass bites it, trying not to cry. Aye, she’s a stubborn one, and quick too. He waits patiently as she works it through, looking away and angrily wiping at her cheeks. “You know who I am, then?” she asks, voice shaking, glaring a little with a furrowed brow. “You’ve got to. Otherwise you’re just the world’s biggest stupid.”

Gendry laughs. “Maybe it’s both.”

Cass sniffs. “You came looking for me.”

“I did,” Gendry agrees. He doesn’t think his voice has ever been so soft. It terrifies him. “I wanted to meet you, and I was worried for you.”

She rightens. “You shouldn’t have been. I’m strong. I can fight, and I can hide, and I never get lost, or scared either.”

“No? I get scared.”

She blinks. “But you’re a lord, and strong, and—”

“Anyone can get scared, Cass. It doesn’t matter how big or old or highborn they are. I’m scared I’m not strong enough sometimes, or that I don’t look after my people well enough, or that I won’t be...”

“Won’t be what?”

“I’m scared I won’t be good enough for you, sweetling. I don’t want to lose you.”

The next he knows she’s thrown herself at him, arms around his shoulders, sending him reeling and clutching for her. Lya was silent, tears glistening on rosy cheeks, but Cass is open and sobbing into the crook of his neck, shaking all the while.

Gendry holds her close, nestled between his legs, and pulls his cloak around her. When her cries turn to sniffles and hiccups, he presses kisses to her cheeks and the top of her head. “It’s alright, little wolf.”

Cass wipes her nose. “I got you all wet.”

He couldn’t care less. “That’s alright, too.”

She leans back and stares at him, before raising her hands. Cass traces the outline of his face with her fingers, cold fingertips pressed against his skin, ice in her veins, head tilted to the side as she gazes like in wonder. “Papa,” she whispers, testing it on her tongue.

A tear falls before he can stop it. “Cassandra.”

“ _Cass_ ,” she corrects automatically, freckled nose wrinkling up. “Cassandra is ugly.”

“Cassandra is beautiful,” Gendry corrects. “It’s a Baratheon name.”

She brightens. “Really?”

“Really,” he affirms. She’s a Baratheon, plain to see. The bullishness runs in her blood, she’s his daughter, and Gendry loves her, needs her like he needs air. 

Cassandra smiles. All of the darkness fades away. A little crease forms in her left cheek, a half moon against her pale skin. “I look like you,” she says, like she’s realising it for herself. “I was always sad because I didn’t look like Mummy or Lya. One time she said I wasn’t really her sister, that I’d been swapped out by grumpkins and—”

He laughs and Cass whacks him, light on the shoulder but surely with all her might. “It’s not funny! I was all alone!”

Gendry sobers, reaching up to gently push her hair from her eyes. “You’re not anymore. You’ll never be alone again, I promise.”

Cass smiles softer this time. She wriggles back into his arms and sighs against his chest, eyes fluttering closed. It’s a wonder how quickly she goes from wide awake to half asleep. “You’re not alone anymore either,” she whispers, clutching at his jerkin and tilting her head to look at him.

Gendry stands, holding her close, still tucked up in his cloak, little and perfect to him. “You’re not too big and strong for me to carry you, I take it?”

Cass blushes. She pretends to consider it. “Only the once.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo! I hope you all enjoyed this one. There’s no Sansa this time, but she’s not out of this story, I promise. 
> 
> In more important news: the subreddit r/freefolk is raising money for Kit Harington’s favourite charity ‘Mencap’. So far they’ve reached £22k of their £50k goal, and they’ve already raised about £35k for Emilia Clarke’s charity ‘Same You’. It would be wonderful if you could all take a moment to donate what you’re able, seeing as I think we can all agree the cast deserved better than what they got. 
> 
> The link: 
> 
> https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/thekinginthenorth
> 
> Thank you, my loves! 🥰 let me know what you thought of this update and things you might like to see more of 😘

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly writing this was like taking a shit when you’re constipated: fucking difficult, but I had to do it. 
> 
> Cheers lads.


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